Page 30 of Bloody Savage God
“Feel better?” he asks, his voice full of amusement.
“Fuck you.” I raise my knife to his throat, pushing the tip into his skin until a tiny red dot appears. “Start talking if you want to live.”
At this point, I’m not even bluffing. I feel too shaken up to have a real hold on my emotions, and that’s a dangerous place to be in. For him, anyway.
“Contrary to what you’re thinking, neither my father nor myself have ever assumed killing your father would gain us anything other than problems. We’ve been doing just fine broadening our operations, without you or your father being any the wiser, since you’ve got your nose so far up in the clouds with your cushy little desk job.”
There is a strange expression that flits across his face, but I can’t quite read it. What I do know is that he’s trying to provoke me on purpose, which means I shouldn’t let anything he’s saying get to me, but his words hit home hard. That’s how people see me. As a mere CEO. The head of a real estate firm, not someone who has her fingers on the pulse of Toronto’s underbelly. When did things get so off the rail? And why did my father allow it to happen?
I’ve been acting independently for so long, the notion that I still, somewhere in the back of my mind, trusted that my father would correct me if I went down the wrong path was startling. And punched the splinter of grief deeper. Because now I was really on my own, with no one there to help see me through all of this.
“Get on with it, then. If you want to walk out of here again, why don’t you sell me your version of events?”
He raises his eyebrows and scoffs. “Because you’re likely to let the son of the Bratva boss walk out of your personal little sex dungeon after you tortured me?”
I keep my stare neutral. We both know that would never happen, so the proverbial carrot was rotten from the start. But hey, worth a try, right? Except Mikhail Tsepov might be Russian trash, but apparently he’s anything but dumb. Cruel and violent, yes, but not stupid.
Taking advantage of my silence, Mikhail continues. “Your father had personal security and was more of a hermit than anything else, no? So, how would someone from the outside have figured out where he went? He was a smart boss, otherwise he wouldn’t have held on to his leadership for so long. The weak link wasn’t a flaw in your family’s security. I’d bet the flaw was trusting those around him. You might call us Russians unorganized and unstructured, but we have something you don’t. We don’t blindly believe in loyalty solely based on blood relationships.”
I shake my head. “So what? You think one of our men betrayed my father? I don’t see you giving me anything but guesses. No evidence. No motivation. Right now, I think we’re done talking for a bit. I’ll find out what you know, eventually.”
Leaving the gash in his leg to bleed, I turn around and grab a bottle of vodka. Fitting for a Russian, I would think. With a smile I pour the liquid over his wound, watching with fascination as the deep red turns to a lighter pink color as it runs to the floor, staining his skin and the remnants of his pants leg.
Putting on my collection of rings I keep in a little drawer, I turn back to Mikhail and give in to my desire to fully unleash my aggression. I start punching him, eagerly watching for his skin to split under my assault. I may not have the natural strength of many men, but I have endurance. So I keep hitting him, allowing my confusion and grief to drain from my mind as I keep pounding his face again and again.
By the time my arms are tired and my hands hurt, his face is a mess. None of his chiseled features remain visible under the red, blue, and black. The swelling of his flesh does its job, finally keeping him from giving me those arrogant looks.
But I’ve gained nothing from it except tired muscles and a temporary relief from my anger.
I need to think before I continue this, but before I leave, Mikhail needs to know he should fear me. So far, he hasn’t experienced genuine pain, and he needs to.
Ineed him to.
Grabbing the needles that I keep in the dungeon for needle play, I step in front of him. Despite his battered features, I can see the continued defiance in his gaze that only flares up higher when I take his bound hand and begin inserting the needles under his fingernails.
He keeps from screaming for the first three fingers, then he breaks with a pained groan and some of the tension in my stomach loosens. This I am good at, even when everything else derails.
When I get upstairs, Eric isn’t there. Probably out for a scouting trip to ensure no one is going to bother us here. He’s the type to be overly cautious, which is exactly why my father chose him as his personal guard.
Except Eric wasn’t there on the night of the murder.
Because my father didn’t ask him to go.
Or so Eric says.
The inkling of doubt I’m feeling towards my cousin burns like acid. Eric is the closest friend and family I’ve got left, and doubting his loyalty isn’t something I ever wanted to do.
In my personal bedroom, I use the en-suite bathroom to wash my hands. I wore gloves earlier, but it still feels better to scrub myself clean. Perhaps more from the doubts Mikhail has sown rather than actual blood spatters. It doesn’t matter.
Tomorrow, I will get more answers, but right now, I need to decide how I want to handle the coming day. Because it will be the first day the family gathers in one place since my father’s death, and if I don’t pay attention, my uncle may very well use my father’s funeral to make his move.
Chapter Eleven
Gianna
Wakingupinthecottage, it takes me a moment before reality barrels back into my consciousness. Today is my father’s funeral.
Looking into the bathroom mirror, I see the same dark auburn hair I’ve had since I was a tiny girl. It hangs in loose waves around my face, reaching down all the way to below my shoulder blades. I never dyed it, loving the color and the way it warms my olive skin tone. Nor do I like cutting it, though I still pay a pretty penny at the salon to make sure it looks healthy.
